


Murder in E Flat

by Noodle_64



Category: MLS RPF, Men's Football RPF, Men's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/M, Sounders Noir fanfiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26428132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noodle_64/pseuds/Noodle_64
Summary: Seattle's premiere jazz band, the Cascadia 11, are excited to have an opportunity to play a show at a festival of the arts, being held in Portland, Oregon. But when one of their saxophone players, Joe Jones, is murdered, will Clinton Dempsey and the other members of the band be able to figure out who did it? Or will they die trying?
Relationships: Clint Dempsey/Bethany Keegan
Kudos: 1





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) back in 2017 and when I'd had to reset my computer back to factory settings, I thought it had been lost forever. Today, however, I found it! Since the majority of the story is already written, I will be posting it and adding in the bits I didn't write as I go. Hopefully you guys will find this enjoyable! I had a lot of fun doing research into the Pacific Northwest during the 1920's as well as adding some 20's slang in there as well.

If there was one thing that Clinton Dempsey hated more than anything else in the world, it was getting rain in his shoe. But living in Seattle pretty much guaranteed him at least one rain-filled Oxford every year and he scowled as he lifted his foot up, tilting it so the majority of the water could drain out. He was going to be late to band rehearsal anyway so a couple extra minutes wouldn't matter.

His trumpet case clutched tightly in his left hand, Clinton made his way up the small set of steps of the boarding house where the Cascadia Eleven were allowed to practice. Mrs. Harris was a right old battleaxe but he and the rest of the boys knew better than to try and cross her and that included their band leader and manager, Brian Schmetzer. It was nice of her to give them a place to play and they always repaid her by making sure that Stefan Frei, their piano player, didn't leave without playing "Snake Rag". It was one of her favorites.

"Deuce!" A voice called from behind him and he half turned, peering through the pouring rain to see who had called his name.

It was Nicholas Lodeiro, formerly of Texas like he himself was and he raised an eyebrow. Nick was almost always early but at least he would be able to share the lecture from Schmetzer with someone instead of having it all to himself like he'd been dreading.

"You're late, Nicky Boy." Clinton said as he got the door of the boarding house open and held onto it. The wind was howling like a wounded lion and if it slammed, that would bring Mrs. Harris down on them even faster than they could say "sorry".

"You're not exactly early either, Deuce." Nick pointed out, shaking out his coat before crossing the threshold of the boarding house. "Did you need a little extra time to get dolled up for the boys?"

Laughing, Clinton set his trumpet case down on the wooden floor and closed the door behind him. He hung his own coat and hat up on the stand that Mrs. Harris kept by the door for that very purpose. His feet squelched with every move he made and he heaved an internal sigh. His feet were going to be freezing pretty soon.

"Clinton. Nicholas. Glad you could join us."

Exchanging glances, both Clinton and Nick turned to find their band leader standing in the hallway, arms folded over his chest.

"Evening, Mr. Schmetzer." Clinton said, not even bothering to try and worm his way out of anything. He knew what was coming and figured he might as well just let his leader get it out of the way now.

"We're still waiting on Harry Shipp. You boys might as well go in and get warmed up."

Now that was weird. Harry was always early. Always. Not wanting to say anything in case it produced the expected lecture, Clinton leaned down and got his trumpet case, hustling down the hall and past Brian. Mrs. Harris was waiting near the kitchen and silently handed him a rag to wipe his case off with. She was alright, most of the time. As long as you didn't drip water on her floor or scuff anything, she had he pleasant moments.

"Get those shoes off." She said briskly, tapping his feet with the end of her broom. "I'll set them by the fire and they should be dry by the time you boys are done making a racket."

She said things like that all the time but when they'd offered to relocate, she'd thrown a fit like they'd never seen. All of them had learned not to take anything to heart by this point.

"You're a queen, Mrs. H." Clinton quipped as he toed his Oxfords off and handed them over to her after wiping the bottoms of them off. No harm in trying to get on her good side.

"Don't give me that earful, Clinton Dempsey. You get in there." Mrs. Harris snorted, using said broom to give him a swat on the leg.

He took his trumpet case and went into the main parlor area where the piano was. Stefan was there, warming up his fingers with some scales. They were lucky to have him and everyone in the band was aware of it. Stefan could've been playing with any number of people but he always stuck with the Cascadia Eleven, no matter how much money he was offered. Privately, Clinton thought Stefan was off his nuts to refuse some of the offers. He could be making some real dough instead of trying to scrape by with the rest of them.

Seating himself on the worn wooden chair that had become his over the last two years, Clinton popped the latches open on his case and almost reverently removed his horn. This trumpet was the one that he always played and considered it to be his "lucky" horn. He had won it during a rather heated game of poker down at a Portland gin mill in 1922. Even though he owned a couple of other trumpets, there was something about this one that Clinton preferred when it came to the sound he could get out of it. The guy who'd owned it had been zozzled that night but Clinton had been around enough to have some beef with Ross Smith so he hadn't felt too bad about reliving him of his possession of the 1921 Conn trumpet. It had a silver plated bell with gold trim and as the lead trumpet of the Cascadia Eleven, Clinton liked the brightness of the tone, the way it could cut through the rest of the band and float over the top when he hit the high registers.

He took the mouthpiece out and set it in the narrow channel where it fit into the main body of the horn, giving it a quarter twist as he did so in order to keep the piece from falling out, even if he held his horn upside down. Joe Jones was sucking away on the reed for his saxophone and Clinton nodded to him. Reed instruments were things that Clinton could just never get into, even though he'd tried his hand at both sax and clarinet for a little bit. He'd stick with brass and let other people worry about reeds.

Blowing some warm air through the horn to get the metal heated up a little, Clinton ran through a "C" scale (which for him was actually the key of B Flat) a couple times. One of his valves was sticking a little bit and he unscrewed the top, pulling the valve up far enough to get a little oil on it before getting it back in place. He pumped the valve several times to distribute the oil and it didn't stick any more.

Nico was dealing with his own saxophone as Harry Shipp came flying into the room. He looked like he had taken a shower with his clothes on and Clinton winced.

"What happened to you?" He asked as Harry tried to get his horn out.

"That old jalopy I have broke down." Harry answered, clearly upset by this. "I was trying to get it to work again but I think I might just have it hauled off for scrap. I had to walk here."

Suddenly, Clinton's shoe full of rain water didn't see quite so bad.

"I can take you home after we play." Stefan offered, turning to look over his shoulder at them. The piano was pushed up against the left side of the room, which made it hard for the pianist to see the rest of the group.

"Would you really? That'd be swell, Stefan."

Everyone else was warmed up and once Harry'd gotten a chance to put some air through his horn, Schmetzer got out his concert A tuning fork and made sure everybody was ready to go before they launched into practicing. One of their personal favorites as a group was an Irving Berlin tune called "Grizzy Bear". It had been popular down in California and Stefan had introduced it to them not too long after the group had formed.

It was especially apt because their baritone sax player, Ozzy Alonso, was often called "Bear" and he always delivered the tastiest solos on that song. The middle section sometimes gave them a little trouble rhythmically and Schmetzer made them run it a few times until they got everything smoothed out. Even though he could be a hard taskmaster sometimes, nobody in the band could deny that they were all playing better now under his direction.

As they put their music away, Brian considered before telling them the next chart to pull up. It was "Alexander and His Clarinet", which featured Will Bruin. Clinton wasn't overly fond of clarinets in general but Will really knew how to make it sing and his tone was never too shrill or piercing, which was hard to do on that particular instrument.

Will was pretty quiet, not really saying too much but they all had learned when he had a bad day because he would put everything through his horn and use it as fuel. Judging from today's solo, he hadn't had the easiest day. The rest of the group hooted and whistled when he was done, showing their appreciation of his skills. He tried to wave it off but they could tell that he appreciated it.

Next was "Sheik of Araby" and this was Clinton's chance to show off a little bit. This was a popular number and a lot of bands performed it but the Cascadia Eleven really tried to make it swing. He made good use of his upper register, able to cut through the backbeat of Stefan on piano, Jordan Morris on Bass and Ori Fisher on the drum set.

His socked feet were tapping on the floor to keep rhythm for himself and he was glad that he had let Mrs. Harris take his shoes for them to dry out. At least his socks also had a chance to be a little less damp before he had to venture back out into the torrential downpour awaiting him outside.

“Nice.” Schmetzer commented and the band was surprised. Their leader wasn’t exactly an effusive man so praise from him was few and far between. But they also knew that when Schmetzer approved, they had really accomplished something.

They refined a couple of other charts before it was time for them to vacate Mrs. Harris’ parlor. Stefan stayed behind as they were packing up to deliver his usual rendition of “Snake Rag” and the woman in question emerged from the kitchen with his shoes, and a cookie for Harry, who accepted it gratefully.

Clinton pulled his shoes on once he’d gotten his horn carefully put back in its case and leaned over to kiss her cheek while she was dusting the mantle. She swatted at him but it was half hearted and there was no real heat in it.

“Boys, before you all scatter to the winds, I have some news.” Schmetzer said and everyone stopped what they were doing. Stefan slid himself around on the piano bench so he could see their leader better.

“We got an offer to play down in Portland in three weeks’ time. The Baker Theatre is going to be hosting a Festival of the Arts. There will be other bands, plays and even movies being shown over a period of two weeks.”

There were approving murmurs from most everyone in the band. Portland was a swell city and Clinton had been there many times even before joining the Cascadia Eleven, plus the Baker Theatre was a place they often played while in the area so it would be familiar to them. There was nothing worse than going to a hall you didn’t known and trying to figure out the acoustics. It would usually take up to half an hour and by then most audiences were off somewhere else.

The competition aspect of it was what picqued Clinton’s interest. He was always looking for ways to improve, to help himself get better at his instrument. Being able to listen to the other groups and see what they did well could prove to be helpful for them. They could steal a few pages from other people’s books.

“I say we should do it.” He said, looking around at the others. Nick and Stefan both agreed and it seemed the only holdout was Joe Jones, which didn’t overly surprise Clinton. If it took more effort than going across town, Joe didn’t seem to want to know about it. Privately, Clinton sometimes wondered if Joe really wanted to be in the band at all, or if he did it because he didn’t know how to say no to Schmetzer. If that was the case, he might keep his ear to the ground while they were in Portland and see if there were any other sax players in the Pacific Northwest who might be a little more willing to travel. It was maddening because Joe was an excellent musician. He just wasn’t interested in really getting to know and bond with the other guys in the band.

“If we’re agreed, then I will write to the head of the theatre and let them know to expect us. We’ll be practicing every other night between now and then.”

Groans greeted this but Schmetzer just looked at them with raised brows. “We need to acquit ourselves well. There could be new people listening to us and also perhaps a chance for us to get new places to play. I don’t know about all of you, but it would be nice to see some new walls once in a while.”

They really couldn’t argue with that. Clinton was just glad that they weren’t playing at some of the gin mills down on Skid Road any more. While the police left them alone for the most part, there was always the risk of being arrested at any establishment that sold alcohol with the nationwide ban on alcohol still going. He didn’t exactly want to have to call his mother and father in Texas to tell them that he had gotten caught and arrested for playing horn in an illegal drinking hall. His father would probably laugh but he knew his mother wouldn’t. He would probably be privy to the “Did I not raise you better than this?” lecture and he had gotten it enough times over the years to be able to repeat it back to her. Not that he would ever do that.

As the others started to file out of the boardinghouse, Clinton was among the last to leave. He always enjoyed taking a moment to look around and sometimes even chat with some of the people who stayed in Mrs. Harris’ establishment.

Tonight, however, it seemed like everyone wanted to be in their rooms and out of the rain. He couldn’t blame them for that and mentally steeled himself for the damp chill that always accompanied the rain at this time of year. He enjoyed the scenery more than Texas, however. Where he had grown up, the landscapes were flat and dry and mostly brown. The first time he had come to Seattle, he had been agog at how green everything was in this part of the country. But in order for it to be green, there had to be water and that meant adjusting to the rain showers.

Taking his hat off the stand where he had set it earlier in the evening and placing it on his head, Clinton also got his coat and made sure his horn case was securely closed before stepping outside. He didn’t want to give any moisture a chance to sneak in and cause damage to his horn.

The skies were still emptying themselves although not as violently as earlier and he was glad of that fact. He still hurried to where his car was waiting and got in. It was a 1920 Talbot and though it was over three years old, it still ran well. It had gotten Clinton from Texas to Seattle and even now he was usually one of the drivers when the band traveled.

Once his vehicle was going, he headed for his own modest room in a boardinghouse run by the Howard family. The head of the household, Timothy, was a decent man and Clinton got along well with him. Some people were reluctant to rent to musicians but Timothy had never held his profession against him. As long as he paid the agreed upon rent by the end of each week, there were no issues. Clinton also usually did his best to not be out too late and if one of their shows ran long, he would stay with one of the members of the band who had their own home and he slept on the floor. Having the good will of ones’ landlords never hurt anything.

Whistling a tune as he got out of his Talbot, Clinton took the stairs up to the front door two at a time, entering as quietly as he could. He wasn’t certain if the children were down for the night or not and didn’t want to disturb them.

“Have a good practice?” Timothy asked from behind him as Clinton removed his coat and hand.

“We did. The group has been invited to go play down in Portland in a few weeks and Mr. Schmetzer is going to work us into the ground by the time we get ready to go." Clinton joked.

"Portland? Any special reason?" Timothy asked, motioning Clinton to come on into his little office area off the main hall.

"Apparently there is going to be a special festival of the arts. There will be troupes putting on plays, bands playing music, that kind of thing."

Timothy nodded slowly. "Sounds pretty swell. You boys will do a good job, you always do."

Since they played at more reputable places now, Clinton had no qualms about inviting friends and people he knew to come and hear the Cascadia Eleven. They had played in the Rose Room at the Hotel Butler a few times and it was a nice place to be. Many of the people that went there were the bee's knees and if a band could get a show or two there, it was a way to come up a little in the world.

"We try to do our best." Clinton said in a matter of fact way. He wasn't the kind of person to rest on his laurels or not strive to keep working hard and praise generally made him a bit uncomfortable. As a musician, he was always aware of the things he hadn't gotten quite right during a performance. Things like if the horns weren't in tune with each other or if he splatted a high note. But most people didn't even notice and he had come to realize that.

"You do more than try." Timothy chuckled, getting out his ledger. That was the sign that the conversation was done if Clinton wanted it to be and the trumpeter was more tired than he had realized.

"We all work well together." Clinton said as he turned for the door. "That's what makes a good band a good band."

Even Joe, with his little ways, fit into the Cascadia Eleven. The lineup had been fairly steady for the four years that Clinton had been a part of it and that helped. The more you played with people, the more you were able to function better as a unit. Their rhythm section was absolutely solid and that was because Stefan, Jordan and Ori were used to each other. He played well with the other two trumpets, Victor Rodriguez and Gustav Svensson because they had put in the hours of practice together.

As he trudged up the staircase to his room, Clinton sincerely hoped that nothing would happen to the Cascadia Eleven. He wasn't sure that they would be able to keep going if there were any major changes to the group as it currently stood.

But if something were to transpire, Clinton knew that Mr. Schmetzer would take care of everything. There was no way their bandleader was going to hang them out to dry. He took great pride in their progress and worked tirelessly to ensure that they had the best opportunities possible. With the boat industry waning, Clinton was actually quite fortunate to be able to make money another way. His parents had been doubtful about his ability to succeed with music but he was quite proud to be able to prove them wrong. He had always been like that, though. His nature was that of a fighter and if he was told he couldn't do something, that only served to make him all the more determined to make it happen.

Part of that had been imparted to him through the loss of his older sister. Even thinking about her this many years later still made something in Clinton's chest ache. He would always miss his protector, his listening ear whenever he needed it. He and his sister had almost been like twins, since they often seemed to be of the same competitive mind a great deal of the time.

Losing her had made him utterly determined that he would bring his dreams to fruition. She had always loved to hear him play his horn and before each performance, he made sure to think of her before he went out, hoping that she was listening to him wherever she happened to be, He played for himself and also for her.

He got the door to his room open, entering it and closing it behind him, making sure to lock it. He had personally never had any issues in the Howards' boardinghouse but there were always people who wanted to make a few clams by selling things that didn't belong to them and Clinton did have two additional horns that he wasn't playing at the moment. That could make someone some kale if they knew where or who to take them to. He saw no sense in not looking after what he had.

Setting his horn case down near the small closet that housed the few items of clothing he owned, Clinton took his music out and laid it on the desk that Timothy had helped him build a couple years ago. It was nice to have a place to sit down and do sums or sort music without resorting to spreading everything out on the bed or on the floor.

His nightly ritual was about the same as it had always been. He washed his face, made sure his dirty clothes were in the hamper that Timothy's wife had provided for his use, brushed his teeth and then got his pajamas on.

The sheets of the bed were a bit chilly, making him yelp quietly when he got under the covers. He was going to have to start remembering to get a hot water bottle to bring up with him so his feet weren't freezing when he was trying to go to sleep. Closing his eyes, Clinton was asleep fairly quickly, music and memories of his sister swirling around in his head.


	2. The Plot Thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The band continues to practice, and Joe reveals a secret.

As the festival got closer, Mr. Schmetzer got increasingly particular when it came to what he would accept from them. Jordan almost cracked under the pressure and the band had to take a break that day. Christian Roldan had taken him outside for a walk and cigarette break, which seemed to help and when they came back in, their leader eased up on them a little bit.

Clinton knew Mr. Schmetzer put more pressure on himself than anyone else in the group and that made him only want to work harder, to ease some of that burden off of him. Being the leader of a small group like the Cascadia Eleven wasn't easy. Most groups wanted just piano, bass and drums or else a full on big band, which they weren't. But with his persistence, Brian Schmetzer had gotten people in Seattle to listen to them and really see what they were able to do.

Now they were going to have the chance to do that in more than just a couple small ballrooms in Portland. They had played at the Baker Theatre before but that had been over two years ago. It was a chance to remind the people in that area what the Cascadia Eleven were capable of and Clinton welcomed the challenge.

In order to have a few extra clams to spend while down in Portland, Clinton had started giving some trumpet lessons. All five of his students were able to have him come to their homes for the lessons and he often not only got money but often got dinner or some food to take with him, which was a little bit he didn't have to buy himself and he was glad of that.

The added bonus was that the kids were a welcome break from a group of highly stressed adults and Clinton was happy to leave thoughts of the festival behind for a few hours, as much as he loved to play.

On his way back from the Wilson home (the father was a big cheese in Seattle somehow), Clinton stopped in to see Stefan and his wife Jennifer. They were a happy couple and he always enjoyed being in their home.

They had a four year old son, Oliver and as Clinton played with him, the pianist gently prodded his offspring. "Tell Uncle Clinton what you told me today, Ollie."

"I want to play trumpet when I get big!" Oliver chirped and Clinton grinned brightly.

"You do? That's pretty swell, pal! When you get big, I can show you how. Does that sound good?"

Oliver nodded and they shook hands on it, sealing the deal.

It meant a lot to him that Stefan's son would want to play trumpet like he did instead of piano like his father. That could always change in the future but if Oliver Frei wanted to learn horn when he was old enough, Clinton would be more than happy to teach him.

Jennifer whisked Oliver away to bed after they'd had one of her usual excellent dinners and Clinton and Stefan watched them go.

"You should find a wife, have a child of your own." The pianist chided gently.

Clinton shrugged. Musicians tended to have a certain reputation and not many women he was acquainted with wanted to have their name attached to that. He couldn't fault or blame them for that supposition which had left his prospects rather bleak in that area.

"I can play with Ollie." He answered after a moment of reflection and Stefan snorted.

"That is not the same, my friend and you know it."

"It isn't, but that may be what I have to settle for."

There was something in his tone that clearly showed he was done talking about it and Stefan, ever perceptive to the moods of others as he always was, dropped it and talked of other things until Clinton realized he really should be getting back to the boardinghouse.

Getting to his feet, Clinton took his leave of his friend. Perhaps someday he could have a wife and a child or children but for the moment, he was going to focus on the band and the music.

\--

Joe Jones looked over his shoulder as he made his way down to Skid Road. He was due to meet someone there to pick up a package that needed to make its way to Portland without detection. It had been almost two years since he’d started doing this and while it wasn’t the most honest way to make a few clams, beggars couldn’t be choosers. As a man of color, he had few options when it came to the kinds of employment he could find so he took what was offered to him and this particular offer had been more lucrative than some of the ones he’d entertained at earlier points in his life.

All he had to do now was get the package. He had a prearranged signal that would tell him who his man was.

“You have a butt, mister?” A male voice asked from his left.

“You want red or gold?” That was the code phrase and he wondered if this was it or if it was just one of the mill workers looking for a free cigarette. The workers didn’t make much in the mills and this wouldn’t be the first time one of them had asked Joe for a fix.

“One of each.” Came the proper answer and Joe exhaled in relief. This was the man he had been looking for.

Under the guise of searching in his pocket for a cigarette to give to the stranger, Joe actually opened a small, zippered compartment in his coat that rested at his hip and made it hard to tell that he was carrying anything on his person.

The man slipped a small package into the pouch, accepted an actual cigarette and melted away into the night, perhaps to go and meet someone else like Joe who was waiting to accept a package for “delivery”. He knew these packages didn’t just go to Portland or even San Francisco. They went all over the country and he wasn’t naïve enough to suppose that he was the only one doing this. People needed money everywhere and this was one way to get it.

Sometimes he felt a pang of guilt when he was on the road with the band. None of them had any idea what he was up to and if something happened to them because of his business dealings, Joe knew he would never forgive himself. They were a relatively innocent group, except Mr. Schmetzer and Stefan. Joe had to be careful around Stefan because he knew the Swiss had seen some things in his life and if there was anyone who could expose him, it was the pianist. Some of them had their secrets, sure, but nothing like this. He just reminded himself that he wasn't doing this for just himself. There were 

With the package safely in his coat, Joe made his way home, being careful to double back every so often and not take the most direct route to the boardinghouse where he lived. He had seen what happened to people who got lazy and took care not to be one of those. He wanted the chance to be able to retire from this but every time he told himself this was his last transport, the money was upped and he felt like he couldn’t really refuse it. Not now that he was so embroiled in it.

As soon as he was in his room, he locked the door and got out his saxophone case. The bottom end had a hidden compartment that Joe had added himself. It screwed closed and he only opened it two times: the first to put something in and the second to take it out.

Taking the neatly wrapped package from his pocket, he squinted at the writing on it. He couldn’t read it and wondered how anyone could but that wasn’t for him to think about too much. He just needed to get it from Seattle down to Portland safely.

He unscrewed the four screw that held the section of case closed and popped the thin cross section of wood out. The package was carefully inserted and then sealed up. Joe made sure the screw were tight and then the tops of them dusted with a bit of shoe polish to make it look like there was no break in the case at all, or if there was, it was just a small crack. Nothing to arouse suspicion.

Once that was settled, Joe made sure his music was in order before drifting off into an uneasy sleep. He always had troubled dreams the night of a pickup but it would be fine. This would be out of his hands in a few days...


End file.
